Bender
by Star of Light
Summary: Bender's thoughts...


"What're you gonna do about it? You think anybody's gonna believe you? You think anybody's gonna take your word over mine? I'm a man of respect around here. They love me around here, I'm a swell guy...you're a lying sack of shit! And everybody knows it!" Vernon shouted at Bender, filling the small storage closet with sound. _Oh, Jesus, this guy thinks I'm getting scared…HA! I'll kill him if he goes for me…_Bender thought, a small grin popping onto his face. Vernon threw off his jacket, dropped it on a chair, and started moving towards John. _Ya little sonofabitch! _The slurred words overpowered Vernon's, the memories closed in on John's mind. The earlier cocky bravery was suddenly vamoose, the ideas of killing Vernon were gone. He fidgeted slightly, Vernon taking it as a sign of defeat.

"Oh, you're a real tough guy...come on, come on...get on your feet, pal! Let's find out how tough you are! I wanna know right now, how tough you are! Come on! I'll give you the first punch, let's go! Come on, right here, just take the first shot!" Vernon stuck his face in John's. Bender, in turn, pulled his head away, banging it on the shelves. _Get ya ass ova here! Ya little ass, don't give me shit!_

"Please, I'm begging you, take a shot! Come on, just take one shot, that's all I need, just one swing…" _I'll slap you upside the head, boy! You know ya wanna hit me so do it! DO IT!_ Bender's eyes were glazed over, but he wasn't so out of it as to not see Vernon throw a fake punch. He flinched, and, annoyed with his reactions, mentally slapped himself upside the head. 

"That's what I thought...you're a gutless turd!" Vernon nastily stated. _That's what I thought, you're a wimp, a pussy. Boy, you best toughen up or you's gonna get yoself killed! _Vernon turned and left, slamming the door and locking it behind him. Bender sat up straight and focused his thoughts on Claire, trying to block out the memories… but they were too overpowering… with a last bit of strength he punched a chair before giving in…

***

_He was nine years old, the week just after his birthday. The sun was shining, the air warm, trees were finally giving into the blossoming of spring; and he was getting ready to paint his model car, a '66 Ford Mustang, his prize of hard labor at the neighbors, bagging up dead tree branches and leaves that had not been properly raked in the fall. His dad was passed out on the couch, drunk as usual, his ma crying in the kitchen about something he had said before succumbing to his current state comatose state. The house was quiet and that's the way John liked it, because it was better than the usual screaming and yelling fits. _

He unfolded a ladder, and climbed up it to reach the top shelf on the garage wall, where his dad kept all the paint. Grasping the small pint sized can in his hand, he checked to make sure it was cherry red, his favorite color, and then began to descend the stepladder. On the second step from the bottom, a loud bang from in the house made John lose his balance. He flailed around for a second in midair, then fell to the ground, landing on his back and losing his grip on the paint can. It hit the ground about two feet away, and the top flew off, causing paint to splash all over the garage. His dad had heard the crash in the garage, and swung the door open with such force that it smashed into the wall of the house, making a hole where the doorknob hit. 

"What the fuck are you doin, ya ass! Look at my fucking garage!" his dad shouted at the top of his lungs, puffing away on a cigar. "Get up off yore ass and look at the fucking mess ya made!" But John didn't have the strength; his back was in pain, and it felt like there was a huge crack in the back of his head. His dad stomped over and roughly pulled him to his feet. Dizzily, John looked around to see red paint all over the floor, on the workbench, on himself…He turned to look at his father, and promptly got slapped across the face.

"I'll teach ya not to make a mess again, I will!" His dad exclaimed. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and blew a smoke ring. John backed up; his father came closer. They played this game until John was stuck in a corner with no way to go. He knew that there was fear in his eyes, and he knew that he couldn't hide it. His head pounded with pain, and he felt his right arm being tugged on, his sleeve being pulled up. 

And then he knew nothing but the pain. His forearm felt as though it was burning, his mouth opened in want to scream as loudly as he could… but no sound came out. John refused to make a noise, refused to make a reaction. If he had, things would have gotten better. But John was a rebel. He wanted to know just how much he could endure. And he and his father kept on playing their game, for years and years, and John never spoke a word to anyone.

Until one fateful Saturday in detention.  


***

Even now, Bender could feel the pain in his arm, the burning sensation tickling and smarting at the same time. Bender liked to think that he was impervious to pain, but he knew the truth. He might have a heart of stone and a face of granite, but some people could see right through it… like Claire… In a burst of inspiration, Bender got up and turned to the stacked boxes behind him. They nearly went up to the ceiling… a ceiling that was strong enough to hold a 175-pound man…


End file.
